The cemetery adjoining the church is a most touching sight. Loving hands have managed to keep the graves in order and they are covered with flowers. There are very many of these graves, and some are even on the paths. Not a single tomb is neglected. There are flowers, vases, statuettes, and ancient woodwork, side by side with figures of coloured plaster. All that could be rescued from the ruins has been used for honouring the memory of those who are no more. There is one grave which I shall never forget. It is surrounded by the ironwork of a child's bedstead and, with infinite care, climbing plants and flowers have been trained over this. In the centre, there are more plants, a crucifix and two statues forming a calvary. One night we were crossing this resting-place, where so many heroes are sleeping their last sleep, when we witnessed a touching scene. We heard the tread of approaching footsteps and a murmur of voices. The chaplain, in his surplice, advanced, reciting the Prayers for the Dead. Behind him, on a stretcher, carried by two sailors, was a long form. They went on their way slowly to the other end of the cemetery, where a grave had been prepared. They had to wait a little, as in order to find the grave they needed the light of the fuses. The body was lowered, a few more prayers were said, and then the dull thud of the earth falling, and that was all.... There was the most impressive silence, in spite of the cannon which kept vomiting forth death, and the almost uninterrupted crackling of the bullets. A few hundred yards away, the horizon, forming a semi-circle was lighted up at quick intervals by the fuses which rose, throwing their reddish glow over the darkness, lighting up the dreary plain, on the screen of which the sombre mass of the tower, and the irregular lines of the dismantled pilasters and of the arches, stood out all the more distinctly. A terrified bat turned wildly about in the air, seeking a shelter that it could no longer find. I remember that I spent that night at the relief station of the Fusiliers, where I found a shelter for my men and where I was most hospitably treated. In a cellar, adjoining the one in which their poor wounded comrades were lying, a bed was very quickly made for me. The walls of this improvised bedroom were papered with red, striped paper, comfortable furniture was arranged here and there, and I should certainly have slept, and not thought any more about the war, if it had not been for the sound of the cannon, the detonations of the grenades, and the clack of the bullets which, from time to time, came flattening themselves against the outside of the wall.